


Reflected, He is Finally Visible

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, I cannot stress enough that he is just covered in blood, Masochism, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, Wounds, he should probably be at the hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: You catch him fingering his wounds, he catches you looking. And like everything he does, it becomes as much a dominance play as anything else.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Reflected, He is Finally Visible

**Author's Note:**

> This one gets a little gross, kids.

It would bother you, his alpha-male bullshit, if it were coming from anyone else. This drag-you-by-the-hair grunting, this marking and claiming, this _mine mine mine_ insistence. 

But it’s August, and you forgive him for far more than you should. And when he comes home weak and wounded it’s more of the same, little crushed-down grunts of pain as he tries to put on a show of strength, even as he’s leaving bloody handprints along the hallway walls. You follow his trail to the bathroom where he stands stripped to the waist, examining the bullet wound in his shoulder in front of the full-length mirror. It’s a clean shot right through the meat of him, blood smeared across his torso back and front, almost like war paint. Knowing him, that’s probably how he sees it. 

Or maybe not, because when he catches sight of you in the mirror he’s already fingering the wound, fingertips creeping right around the edges. It looks like a lover’s caress, and when he dips just the tip of his middle finger into the wound, the moan he lets out is _obscene._ The blood on his chest smears with the motion of his hand, his forearm dragging over his chest, his other hand coming up so he can press his palm over the wound, so he can dip his bloody hand into the front of his open pants and fist his cock, wet and red and everywhere slick and shining. 

He could rise from the depths like this; he could glisten like tar in the night when everything is only different shades of moonlight. He could stalk and slither into your bed and you would welcome him, shockingly, you would welcome him because here you find yourself wet and aching at the sight of him like this. He sees you looking, sees your openmouthed and panting face in the mirror, and he knows. And his face twists in a smirk, because now he’s got you pinned under his gaze and he has you exactly as he wants you. 

He shows off, his face tight with pain but more than that with pleasure, the pleasure of sensation and even more than that, of _control_. He takes his hand from the wound to scrub it over his face, hair standing on end, mustache askew, pattering drops of blood like rain on the bathroom floor, slithering red down his chest and into his pants, over the hand that grips and strokes at that iron rod. He shows off, dragging fingers down his face and drawing them into his mouth, sucking the blood from them, absorbing it back into himself. 

He pauses, panting, every inch of him perfectly still, barely breathing as he seems to steel himself. His eyes are bright and fixed on you when he exhales, when he takes two fingers and thrusts them _to the root_ into his wound, a move that drops him to his knees with a crack, but he keeps pressing his fingers into the wound, curling and stroking them in a way you know intimately. And all the while his other hand is firm, pulling at himself roughly, and until recently you would’ve thought it was too much, too harsh, but with his heaving chest and the tension in his back and those breathless moans, you are starting to realize that maybe _too much_ is really _just enough._

He has to be close, hips stuttering out of rhythm, and you want so desperately to touch him but you are fixed in place; the only motion you’re capable of making is that of your hand between your legs. He sees that too, sees everything even as he’s coming apart at the seams, as he pulls his wound obscenely wide with a shout, as he spills over his hand and onto the bathroom floor, seed and blood mingling together. 

And even as he fights to catch his breath, as his next inhale is nearly a sob, still his eyes are fixed on you. He smiles, sharp-toothed, some creature rising from the depths. He opens his mouth to speak, and drags you back down with him.


End file.
